


Blutbad in a Bath (not a blood one)

by MistressKat



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild D/s vibes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monroe doesn’t even <i>like</i> baths. Much. He likes a certain Grimm just fine though…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blutbad in a Bath (not a blood one)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fictionwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionwriter/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Fictionwriter and thank you for your patience with all the traumatizing beta work we send your way each year. Cheers to pushkin666 for reassuring me this was at least vaguely in character… I can’t believe it’s almost a year since I’ve written Grimm fic!

 

“…not necessary. I can wash myself perfectly—”  
  
“Just shut up, Monroe, and take your clothes off,” Nick says, turning the taps.  
  
Monroe blinks. Then he undoes his shirt buttons. “You didn’t even buy me dinner first,” he grumbles.  
  
“I got you a coffee at the hospital.”  
  
“And it was disgusting.”  
  
“Yeah, well, so was seeing your bones practically sticking outside- Oh, for god’s sake, let me.” Nick takes over the button duty before gently easing the shirt over the cast covering Monroe’s left arm.  
  
It has been an eventful day.  
  
And for some reason it’s apparently going to end with a bath.  
  
“Is this like a Grimm thing?” Monroe asks, turning slightly away to unbuckle his belt. Because there are limits. Even if they tend to be rather permeable around Nick. “Some kind of cleansing ritual? Will there be… Apparently so.” He eyes the explosion of bubbles filling the tub, nose twitching at the scent of… Lavender. He didn’t even know he owned anything lavender-scented.  
  
“What? No,” Nick says, frowning. He’s studiously testing the water temperature, back turned to give some illusion of privacy.  
  
Monroe takes advantage of it and shucks out of his trousers, finally standing stark bollock naked in his tiny bathroom with the Grimm less than an arm’s length away, reading the label on a shampoo bottle. It should by all laws of the nature be awkward as all hell, but somehow Monroe is just too tired and sore to muster the level of indignation or embarrassment the situation deserves.  
  
“Alright,” he says, “help me in then since you’re here.” He grabs hold of Nick’s arm to steady himself as he steps into the tub.  
  
Nick is surprisingly good at it; his hands providing a necessary counterbalance just where it’s needed, the brief curve of his palm around Monroe’s ribs leaving behind an imprint that radiates warmth even after he’s chest deep in hot water.  
  
“I could’ve just had a shower,” he says, to distract himself from any dangerous thoughts. “It would have been fine.”  
  
“Sure,” Nick says, nodding in that mock sincere way of his which means he thinks he knows better than you and is probably right, the bastard. “Up until the moment you slipped and broke your other arm.” He folds a towel and places it on the edge of the tub, arranging Monroe’s cast encased arm on top of it. “One ER trip per day is enough, okay?” It’s said lightly, but there’s an undercurrent of real worry in Nick’s voice and in his eyes too, when Monroe makes himself look into them.  
  
It’s… Well, ‘distracting’ still works. “I don’t even like baths,” Monroe mutters, the statement immediately undermined by a deep groan of pleasure that escapes his mouth as he lowers himself further into the water. Apparently, his sore muscles disagree.  
  
Nick shifts awkwardly on his knees, reaching for the loofah on the low shelf and then dropping it amidst the bubbles. “What do you mean you don’t like baths?” he asks. “I thought it was kind of given with… Well.”  
  
Monroe dips his head back and then brushes wet hair off his face. “That’s the problem,” he says, imbuing as much mournful yearning into his voice as he can manage. “It’s not blood.”  
  
Nick stares at him in horror for three seconds – Monroe counts – before he catches the smirk lurking behind the blank expression he’s finding increasingly difficult to maintain.  
  
“You fucker!” Nick exclaims, flicking bubbles at Monroe’s laughing face.  
  
“Come on, you really thought…?” Monroe shakes his head in despair. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“See if I wash your hair now,” Nick says, pouting.  
  
And that right there – the look of unguarded fondness in Nick’s eyes, the way he’s kneeling beside the bathtub that Monroe got into without a single thought for how vulnerable a position it put him in because he knows, _knows_ with all his being that Nick would never hurt him… It’s too much for his self-control, dulled as it already is by painkillers and _nakedness_ , and Nick’s hands, trailing into the water so casually, like he doesn’t even realise how easy it would be to grab one of them and…  
  
So Monroe does. He closes his fingers around Nick’s wrists and _tugs_ , just a little, just to get him off balance enough that he has to brace his free hand against Monroe’s knee or risk falling into the water.  
  
“But what if I asked, really, _really_ nicely?” Monroe says, hearing the deep almost-growl in his voice but entirely unable to stop it.  
  
They both freeze and for a heart-stopping moment Monroe thinks he’s miscalculated but then on the next inhale he smells it, smells _Nick_ , his arousal, his blood rushing to the surface of the skin, the blush making those pretty cheekbones of his even prettier.  
  
Nick licks his lips and Monroe fights to keep still, because this needs to be Nick’s decision now.  
  
“Well,” Nick says eventually, stretching the word. “I think I could be persuaded.” His hand on Monroe’s knee starts to slowly inch downward and Monroe’s grip on Nick’s wrist tightens to bruising.  
  
“I can be very persuasive,” Monroe promises, voice dropping an octave or ten as he turns around to pull Nick closer, water sloshing over the edge as he reaches to—  
  
“Ow, fuck, son of a _bitch!_ ”  
  
“What, what?” Nick sounds alarmed, scrambling back. “Are you alright?”  
  
“No!” Monroe grits, shutting his eyes against the pain that is making his whole arm throb. “I believe this is what you would call ‘extremely bad timing’.”  
  
“…I’m sorry,” Nick says. He sounds way too mortified for what the situation demands but it takes Monroe a full minute of careful breathing until he can open his eyes again.  
  
Nick is still on the bathroom floor but now considerably farther away from the tub than before, looking somehow smaller. His expression is a mixture of guilt and trepidation.  
  
Monroe sighs. “Hey, that’s not what…” He goes to reach a hand out to Nick but thinks better of it the last second. “Come here, I can’t…” He gestures futilely, clearly looking pathetic enough that Nick shuffles forward again.  
  
“I said ‘bad timing’, not ‘bad idea’, okay?” Monroe takes hold of Nick’s hand as soon as it’s within non-injury-causing reach, willing him to understand.  
  
Nick stares at him silently for a moment before his shoulders finally relax and a tentative smile returns to his face. “Okay,” he says, squeezing Monroe’s hand in return. “Okay. So… You still want me to wash your hair?”  
  
Monroe barks a laugh, relieved and giddy despite his broken arm and the extremely bad, awful, no good timing of it all. “Sure,” he says, grinning, “Lather me up.”


End file.
